


But Now, Am Found

by SincerelyYourNightmare



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alien Cultural Differences, Alien Culture, Being the New Kid, Cultural Differences, Dancing, Gen, Loss, Loss of literally your entire world, Music, Muteness, POV Ronon Dex, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Singing, Swearing, is important in this fic, warrior culture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:28:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23018572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SincerelyYourNightmare/pseuds/SincerelyYourNightmare
Summary: Ronon was a stranger in a strange land, surrounded by people from even stranger lands. It's up to him to figure his place out in their midst. It was not their responsibility to make room for his own, lost, culture. Still, he wished Lanteans had a more coherent group identity.(A few thoughts on Ronon's integration. I love outsider-POV.)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 27





	1. Revelations Via Food

**Author's Note:**

> This formatting is giving me hell because McKay loves italics.  
> Also, grammar is a thing. That I occasionally employ. Or fail at emplying consistently. Point out mistakes if found, please.
> 
> Timeline, what timeline?
> 
> 'Shepherd' is a deliberate misspelling, you'll see.
> 
> I stole some Japanese-sounding syllables to make my Satedan words. Please forgive. Any similarities are not intentional. I have headcanons about the Satedan language structure but do NOT have the time to make my own conlang. Later chapters go into more detail on how I think the Universal Translator function in the Gate could work.  
> I stole some ideas from many sources. I might put them in ANs later. 
> 
> Also, keeping a character voice consistent is so so so hard. I like writing Ronon, though, he's chill. 
> 
> If you like, please consider writing a comment and providing me with motivation via cheering squad. RL is kicking my arse.

There were a lot of things about the Lanteans that confused Ronon. One of them was this obsession with meal etiquette. After 7 years grazing and hunting in any spare moment, Ronon was intensely glad that there was always some food available for people to take. Even Teyla’s pointed looks couldn’t make him care about manners, but he adjusted enough to stop accumulating the driest long-lasting bars of nuts and fruit. He kept his hoard, though, and forks were still mostly a frustrating endeavour.

Despite Teyla’s failure at teaching him etiquette (because Shepherd didn't give a fuck what he did at the table and McKay didn't give enough of a fuck to tutor him), it gave him an insight into the lives of the city’s occupants. There was something about food that made Lanteans change their behaviour.

Meals on Atlantis were mostly communal, but almost all of the scientists just got whatever hand-food was on offer and immediately returned to their work areas. Every now and then, a large group of them gathered one-by-one at a table, talking over each other and shoving recording tablets at their conversation partner. Once he turned up for food, McKay was usually dragged in and then became one of the loudest ones. Ronon had asked one of the nearby soldiers why they did that in the communal eating space, but he had just laughed and said it was the place everyone knew McKay would turn up at, one time or another. 

“And it’s ‘snacks’, bro. Snacks and coffee are scientist fuel.”

That didn’t really clear it up, but when he told Shepherd about it, he only got a frown and a mutter about pushy scientists and bad eating habits. 

There were less mass-conversations in the eating space after that and Ronon felt awkward when he concluded that his remark had resulted in the action. It was too much like giving a personnel report to his superior. The last one of those he had given had been many years and lots more planets ago. As the only Specialist on the squad, knowing any personal problems had been a large part of his job – they didn’t need any issues getting in the way of cohesion during a fight. Apparently, that instinct was still ingrained, even a world away from the planet it had been honed on. 

It was days after that accidental report to Shepherd that Ronon understood. McKay was holding a recording tablet when he stumbled into the eating space – called a ‘mess’ apparently, oddly apt for a Lantean term, they usually didn’t translate coherently – and everyone moved out of the way. 

Everyone, regardless of rank or occupation in the city. 

Collecting his hand-food mechanically, McKay had bumped into a lower ranking soldier who had not been looking where he was going, being much too occupied with staring at a female scientist out of the corner of his eye. When he realised who he had disturbed, the soldier straightened into inspection-levels of attention and apologised before scramming. McKay had looked annoyed, then surprised, then intensely focussed before striding out of the mess, presumably back to wherever he was working that day. 

It clicked with Ronon then, that McKay was someone who was so important to the city that he was constantly waylaid by clamouring employees who wanted something from him. Obviously, Shepherd had realised that he was being kept from working and eating properly by the demands of his ‘minions’ and had ordered it to stop, at least in the mess. Why McKay didn’t stop it himself was beyond Ronon, but then he didn’t know the Lanteans well enough to predict complex behaviour yet. 

As Head of Science, a prestigious but time-consuming title, it made sense that McKay was sought after by all the scientists in the city at one time or another. But the fact that he was integral to Atlantis function was in absolutely no doubt in the military minds either, of that Ronon was sure. So why was McKay a part of a strike squad that went through the Ring regularly and exposed themselves to so many ways to die? Although McKay boasted loudly to anyone in earshot that the city would fall without him, and everyone reacted to it as if hearing a joke, it seemed like they all knew it was far too true for comfort. 

When Ronon asked McKay outright why he was on a squad, he got an impressively dubious expression and lots of flailing hands.

“Are you _serious_? Can you imagine Sheppard regularly by himself on a planet? He’d never be seen again and pff, I don’t know, escape into the hermit life he secretly yearns for. No, no I _don’t_ count Teyla; as much as she is a strong, very capable warrior, she isn’t _me_. We get into plenty of shit when we're together, Jesus, think of the crap he’d get into without me…”

So it was… loyalty. From a scientist? Lanteans were weird.


	2. The Voice and the Picture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ronon knew how to write. But really, why would you write if you could sing?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some sad boi hints here.

The thing that threw Ronon the most was the writing. Every Lantean seemed to be fixated on things that were written down, but as much as McKay liked to make snide remarks about his education, Ronon wasn’t thrown by the concept so much as the _volume_. On Sateda, the only time he had to write something down was if someone in his squad died. Reports to his superiors were always done in person or if, absolutely necessary, over communication devices in code. That was a tradition left over from the times of regular Cullings – there were stories of Wraith that disrupted and intercepted messages, rather ironically told through songs and tapestries. 

His grandmother was the one to make sure to show him why listening to the poems performed in the city-block square was such an important part of his education. He had been eight years old and officially learning the beginning stages of the _manake_ , the lowest fighting level. He had been proud that the instructor had singled him out of the group for extra training and then devastated when he had been told that the first thing he had to do was go out into the streets and merely listen. Raging to his _Naki_ had done nothing, her face staying firm until he had run out of words to express his frustration. 

“ _Dek’ji_ ,” she had said fondly, “Instructor Lanike is trying to teach you something. What do you think this is?”

He had pondered on this all the way through the evening meal and while he had wanted to continue moaning, his curiosity didn’t allow for such distraction. When they had settled on the veranda to hear the neighbours begin the evening songs, with instruments sounding from many different windows and the accompanying words being harmonised, Ronon thought he had figured it out. 

“ _Naki_ , I think ne-Lanike-cho wants me to listen to our stories, Sateda’s songs, so I won’t forget the things that happened before and let the same bad things happen.” He had waited for her assessment and knew he had it right when she smiled at him, her wrinkles exaggerated from the light of the streetlamps below. 

“And what will you do once you know them all?” she had quizzed. His wrinkled nose and furrowed brow had brought a short, hacking laugh to her lips and despite the sound reminding him of her impermanence in his life, he had smiled back. “You will learn to tell them, _Dek’ji_. Only once you teach, can you really understand.” 

Years later, when he had mastered the highest fighting level requirements of _kanabe_ and his moves were seamless, he remembered that night. In celebration of his acceptance into the Satedan Land Force Academy at age 15, a full year younger than his peers, his friends had pulled him into the square and teased him until he had begun the tune of a popular victory ode. While most of the musicians employed there had known him since he was born, he knew he had surprised them with his vigour and energy that day, his hands flying over strings and his voice easily carrying to the other blocks in his radius. 

The knowledge that there was celebration as well as mourning being carried from the past into the present via his song was a heady experience. After he had given his life to Sateda, either metaphorically or literally, he would be satisfied in his final moments because there was something bigger than him and the songs would continue without him. Maybe there would be new ones, but strict oral tradition ensured that the songs and poems that had been told in his lifetime were the same as the ones told a century ago and the same ones as would be told a century from then. Understanding slammed into him with the last triumphant chord, echoed by every single instrument in the group and a percussive interlude began; it would lead into the next piece of Satedan history. 

His planet’s history was alive and weaving itself into their lives, becoming part of it and inspiring it at the same time. No document or tapestry could come close to being as important.

His fingers shaking, his friends dancing and cheering for him, Academy Student Ronon Dex could only think of his _Naki_ , dead five years and still teaching him.


	3. Part of Something

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ronon learned early on that he was to be part of a greater whole.

His first experience of a tapestry had been of the huge one placed in the music room with the veranda, after his _Naki_ died and Ronon became the last of her lineage. In her honour, her ancestry and achievements were placed on prominent display in the centre, with intricate woven illustrations and stitched patterns along the edges. It must have taken years to perfect. During his pre-Academy training, he had often stood in front of it and marvelled at the detail and amount of effort put into her memorial. He had asked Instructor Lanike shortly after her death who had sponsored the making, and his response had not been the one he had expected.

“It was the Satedan Council, Ne-Dekase-sa,” he had said. He was always so composed; it took Ronon a moment to fully take in that ridiculous statement. 

“ _What_? _Those_ old geezers knew my _Naki_?” he had shouted, and when Lanike had frowned he automatically did the twenty punishment push-ups for yelling at his superior. 

“There is a copy of the tapestry in your apartments hanging in the Council hallways. Your _Janaki_ was – is – well-respected, even if only reluctantly, due to her heritage. Such a beautiful, complex song from a farmer’s background was unheard of, before her.” There might have been a slight mistiness to the Instructor’s tone, but Ronon had been too absorbed by this influx of new information to focus on his teacher’s expressions. “The Ronone and Kalida families owe their status to her. ‘The Lament of the Risen’ was revolutionary.” His eyes blinked from distant memories and into the present. “You had better appreciate all that she gave you, Dekase. Live up to it.”

Wide eyes turned into determined eyes and Ronon Dekase swore he would do his _Naki_ proud. That day, at sundown, his _kajine_ was the first to push a tune into the night air and when the others joined in, the tears streaming down his face seemed entirely justified. While the chorus was wailing about the loss of a husband via a Wraith beam, Ronon was thinking about the fireside that his _Naki_ used to sit at, sharing memories of her married life with her attentive grandson. Finally, when the discordant solo of the _kajine_ found absolution in perfect cadence, Ronon finished ‘The Lament of the Risen’ with nary a wavering note and went to bed, heart aching but soul resonating peace. 

With his culture so steeped in oral tradition, he knew it was another difference that would isolate him. His first few days on Atlantis had been tense and when Shepherd suggested he be on his squad he had jumped at the chance to move, contribute, _do something_. 

Being restricted felt strange, but the routine helped him get used to people again. It was only when he was called into Weir’s office that he realised how much writing was involved in everything the Lanteans did. He was supposed to sign things and read things and sign some more things and it was all too much. Weir tapped at the tablet on the desk in front of him impatiently to get his attention back every time it wandered.

“Can’t read this stuff, can’t you just tell me?” he asked her. Weir blinked and then, groaning, smacked her forehead in an admonishing move that seemed to cross all cultures. Shepherd, lurking at the side, rolled his eyes and picked up the tablet. 

Getting a quick and concise summary of the possible obligations of his position, a confusing summary of how he would be protected politically, and then a checklist of all the things that would be provided for him all went a long way to reassure him that they were thinking about how to integrate him. Isolation had never seemed so far away. 

“Alright, but that one duty, ‘ke-yi-pee’, what is that?” he asked once the half-hour-long monologue had trailed off. Shepherd squinted at him and fiddled with the device until he found the correct page of the document. 

“KP? Erm, that’s actually not something you need to worry about, I doubt you want to prepare food and anyway, that isn’t a common component of the civilian consultant contract-.” He broke off when Ronon made a questioning noise. “Oh, we tailor these contracts to every individual, so the standard one just has every available duty and we pick and choose the ones that fit for you. When the Athosians stayed in Atlantis, they wanted to help out and some of them went to the kitchens, so…” 

“I want to try everything at least once,” he said. There was silence and then a quiet clicking sound. Weir had put down her interactive pen for the tablet. 

“Everything?” She hesitated. “There’s a _lot_ -.” 

“I know. Not all at once. But. I want to try.”

They both looked unconvinced. Ronon sighed; he knew he had to let something slip to get them to agree.

“Been a while since I was part of som’thing bigger. Dunno where I fit, now.” Shit, his accent was thickening. He squirmed a little in his seat and pretended he was shifting to get more comfortable. From the looks on their faces, it was a useless endeavour. “Still wanna kill Wraith, though,” he added, to let Shepherd know he wasn’t abandoning the strike squad for a retired life. 

Shepherd grinned and nodded – message received. Weir sighed and threw her hands up a little in a gesture he knew signified concession. Ronon returned the grin and signed his name in Satedan script with military precision, right to left, pretending not to notice when Weir made an interested noise. 

She smirked at his deliberate obtuseness (and lack of eye contact), telling him to settle in for seven days. “And try not to make anyone cry if they want to know things about Sateda, please. Pretty much everyone knows by now that Sateda is … has fallen, but scientists are insatiable beasts.”

“Feel free to tell them to fuck off, though, if they’re annoying you.” Shepherd said. _His_ smirk told him he had done the same many times. It had a dark edge of glee to it. “Nothing in your contract states that you have to subject yourself to interrogation.”

Ronon nodded, but he knew that if anyone gave sincere indications of interest, he would continue the Satedan oral traditions. He would _not_ allow Sateda to die twice. The first thing he would do once he got out of the meeting was look for materials for crafting a crude _kajine_. It might be nice to get his croaky voice used to singing again, too. 

Yeah, right. Fat chance. He couldn’t even open his mouth for a goodbye after that minor expression of feelings earlier. 

“Well, we’re done here, then. See you in the mess for dinner?” Shepherd said and Ronon shot up, barely giving an absent-minded half-bow before striding to McKay’s lab. Hopefully someone there would be able to get him some wood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Er, so, Ronon's grandma is becoming an OC. I didn't plan this. Lanike, I did plan. Sorta.


	4. Meeting Miko

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ronon meets Miko. He has one (1) feeling.

It was Doctor Kusanagi who caught his attention, despite the crowd surrounding him, clamouring for his knowledge. She was writing what he could vaguely recognise as mathematical equations on a piece of glass, separate from the group. He knew this part of the work area was dedicated to understanding culture and training diplomats, so he didn’t know what number-science was doing there. 

Curious, he left the scientists to squabble about how he should split his time between them and navigated the maze of precariously-arranged materials towards her. He had heard McKay ranting about her a number of times, both for projects that he called ‘acceptable extrapolation of basic principles’ (which Ronon translated into ‘good work’) and for the usual reasons that scientists flourishing under McKay couldn’t avoid. McKay was a tyrant who showed appreciation of his minions’ contributions by yelling about their failures. 

The thing that struck Ronon was the way she introduced herself.

“Hello, Ronon Dex,” she bowed a little when she noticed him standing slightly to her side, her hands lowering to the front of her thighs in a ritualistic manner. His name had never sounded more like his actual name. She even had an accent that made her words sound Satedan, despite the nonsense syllables he could hear under the Voice of the Ring. “I am Kusanagi Miko. What can I do for you?” 

“Thought you were Miko Kusanagi?” he said. She pinked a little and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. 

“In my culture, one says the family name first. Mine is Kusanagi.”

“Mine too,” he said. She blinked. “I meant the name order.” She blinked again. Her eyes seemed larger than they were due to the reading glasses. The frames looked like they were made in a factory. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, er, I am writing out how the variables possible within a crystal matrix circuit can affect the compiling errors. There are a surprising number of pathways -.” She saw his blank face and correctly interpreted it as incomprehension. He appreciated that she stopped; McKay usually didn’t without some remark on his (supposed lack of) intelligence. “Er, did you mean, here in this room?”

He nodded and perched his hip on a desk’s edge. 

“Oh. Well, the ‘physics and engineering’ lab was getting really crowded with all the stuff that’s being assembled there. Kavanaugh said we would be more prone to errors in both calculation and construction in such a confined space, so some of us moved out.”

It sounded plausible but Ronon heard something missing. McKay had ranted about a ‘Kavana’ too, only without the backhanded compliments that usually insinuated themselves in rants about people he liked. Ronon felt a thing. In his chest. He didn't know what it was, but whatever-it-was was doing some serious acrobatics.

“You mean, Kavana kicked you out.”

“Um, yes, but it makes sense!” Kusanagi was fiddling with her pens and widening her eyes further. It made her look like an insect that was a common Ro plant pest in Satedan fields. Whenever she blinked, his eyes snapped back to hers. “I am more a theoretical physicist than an engineer, anyway; I’d just be in the way of Doctor McKay and his team. The work he does is important.” 

_And mine is not_ , was the unspoken conclusion she had come to. 

She was trying to convince herself. 

It was none of his business.

“Okay,” Ronon said and she settled down. 

When Kusanagi realised that he was just going to keep leaning there with his arms crossed, she huffed quietly and got back to scribbling on her glass sheet. And when the rabble behind him seemed to get louder and higher in pitch, Ronon stood, full-bowed to a wide-eyed Kusanagi and left. With a squeak that made him smirk, he saw Kusanagi being beset by anthropologists over his shoulder. The Marines were extra wary while sparring with him in the gym later.


	5. Music to my Ears

The first time Ronon heard a recording of Lantean music, he was holding up a wall in the Gateroom, and it was being emitted from a tablet connected to an amplifier of sorts. It was strangely metallic in quality and Ronon winced, but all the people on duty were nodding along to the rhythm that was a simple 4-beat with a sequence switch now and then. Some of the scientists coming and going from a dissected console were even walking in sync, and Ronon had a sudden intense burst of longing for those evenings in his top-floor apartment. The words didn’t make sense, as with all music from other worlds, but it was enough like Satedan music that his breath felt constricted. 

“Honestly, you lot!” came a shout from one of the engineers who had just entered the central tower. Ronon flinched. “Turn that shit off! You’ll rot your brains and then looking pretty sitting in the Gateroom is all that you’ll be doing.” 

“Shut up, Jakobs, your violins do all the whining for you,” came the teasing reply from another engineer at his raised console. Everyone was grinning as the song came to an end, several people striking a pose at the last, forceful chord. “Anyway, I already queued piano twinkling for the next fifteen minutes.” 

“No one, and I mean _no one_ has ever accused Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata of being ‘piano twinkling’.” Over the good-natured groans came an indignant voice that Ronon identified as belonging to the guy who was usually sitting at the dialling device when he went on AR-1 missions. Garodan, or something similar. “The man will have you weeping on the floor one second and then smiling and tapping your foot the next, just you wait.” 

“You gotta admit, classical is fairly repetitive,” came a small voice from deep within a console. 

“I will do no such thing!” Jakobs retorted as she sat down in a vacated seat. “And what do you call all that mm-duh-mm-duh nonsense I keep hearing when I come for my shift? Music is based on repetitive patterns, how the hell do you, a scientist, not know that?” 

“English snob,” came a muffled sneer from the console.

“Moron with naught but a single brain-cell.”

“Oi-!”

“Hey, hey, _hey_! We’re just ribbing here. Don’t start on the insults!” said Garodan. He was pointing a playfully warning finger at both arguing parties. “We are all varying levels of intellectuals here. We can appreciate musical diversity without resorting to playground name-calling.” 

“He’d lose, anyway,” Jakobs muttered into her tablet and Ronon couldn’t help a smirk. 

Then, in the same tinny quality, came a piece of music that had Ronon raising his eyebrows. That instrument sounded completely alien and the tune was deceptively simple, but Ronon saw Jakobs miming something with both her hands in time with the recording and he realised that it was being played by one musician. When the third part started, and the frantic nature seemed to transfer into jerky movements, head nodding and leg shaking, he noted that despite misgivings about its ‘classical’ nature there wasn’t a person in the Gateroom unmoved by the song. He was fiddling with his blaster himself, finding his own head nodding of its own volition.

It … was different. It didn’t need words to get across emotions or concepts; Ronon felt a spark of intellectual competitiveness that he hadn’t felt since his Academy days. However, the lack of words made it sound crude to his ears, like a student practicing in his rooms before playing in the streets to make sure he knew all the notes and cues. Once he had his _kajine_ and _seturi_ finished, he’d show these people a proper Satedan solo. A sharp pang reminded him that to be truly Satedan, he’d need a whole complement playing with him and singers to weave the story into the music. 

“There’s a group in the Third West Tower that plays live,” said a female voice from his right. He startled and turned to see one of the wandering engineers looking up at him with a lip between her teeth. “On rest-days, I mean. In the morning. If you want to-.” She halted there and seemed to think her point got across because she rushed off down one of the hallways. 

Huh. Okay then.

As he headed for the gym, he left behind the beginnings of a bowed string instrument group harmonising.


	6. Brings out the Honesty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some angst here. Ronon has more than one feeling.

“Fuckin’ stupid. Just di’n’t go anywhere! Went round’n round‘n then it jus’ ended! Wha’ kin’a story does’n’ have a coda?” 

“Holy shit. Ronon has opinions on _Earth music_?”

“Dude, _coda_.”

“Dude, _Ronon_.”

They were on a pier; Ronon gazed around blearily but he couldn’t find anything identifying enough to tell him which one. Ancestor architecture might be flashy and always vaguely crystal-like, but they were just as unimaginative in design as cities on Earth. With a few notable exceptions – he’d seen the Sydney Opera House in a movie and had fallen in love. It was just so … curvy. And spiky. Like petals. Beauty should be coveted and strived for, because it could be gone in a day if the Wraith showed up. But wait, Earth didn’t have the Wraith, so maybe they just didn’t need as much of a reminder what to live for every day… 

He lost that trail of thought deliberately. Clutching the bottle of propulsion fuel was taking increasing amounts of concentration, so he took another decisive swig to empty it before it spilled.

“Think we should get Carson? He must be such a lightweight after, y’know, the whole Runner business, and he’s already had half the vodka.”

“Are you kidding? This is far too entertaining. And humiliating. He’ll kill us if we bring in more people to witness this.”

“But, _look_ at him-.”

“He won’t _die_ -.”

‘Earth’ was really the most unimaginative name for a planet. So many planets were called ‘earth’ or ‘forest’ or ‘beach’ in the language of the people there that it didn’t even make sense to translate it anymore. But in the case of the Lanteans – except they weren’t one people, there were at least 28 different peoples represented and some of them called themselves _Tau’ri_ , but that seemed to cover the population of whole planet rather than one culture, and the Lanteans might also be Tau’ri but they definitely had their own thing going – their planet’s phonetic pronunciation was so weird in his mouth that even after weeks of practicing, he knew he had a terrible accent because everyone in his vicinity looked at him strangely when he used it. It really wasn’t helping him get used to actually talking to people again. 

It also didn’t help that Shepherd and McKay and even Teyla enabled him and each other to the point where, as a strike squad, they didn’t really need to give signals anymore. Talking was more of a signal in itself rather than direct communication. If McKay was bitching – what a _beautiful_ verb, he loved the way the main Lantean language made nouns into verbs – it meant everything was fine. If Shepherd was drawling, everything was fine, and if he was barking orders it meant everything was going to shit and the idiot would undoubtedly shortly be on his way to do something stupid. If Teyla was speaking that meant everyone had better shut up, stop what they’re doing, switch on their brains, and listen. And if Ronon was talking it was a wet day on Palinsi. No rhyme or reason for his mouth to let him speak at certain times and not at others. It remained a mystery to Ronon.

The enabling thing had come from the Lantean mind-healer, Heightmeyer. Although Ronon had immense respect for healers, it was difficult to look at her and not see Melena. Her name was almost Satedan in its phonetic composition; ha-YI-t’-ma-ya. It helped a little, enough that rather than being completely mute, he was just mostly mute. It was really no wonder she was annoyed with him, because sometimes he went to sleep without having spoken a single word in the last week. He knew he was fucked up: he couldn’t _speak_. How was he supposed to talk about his ‘experiences’ and explain to her that he was immensely fucked up if he couldn’t even make himself talk to his own _strike squad_? The people that he would _die for_? 

“Hey, hey, buddy,” Shepherd’s voice seemed to gently float into his ears. “You don’t need to talk for us to understand. I mean, I’m not the best role model for, er, expressing my feelings, but Teyla seems to get us. And Rodney … er, well-.”

“ _Excuse you_ , despite the immense brainpower it takes to decipher the grunting and staring that encompasses most of your communication, my brain and I are up to the task-.”

“Relax, McKay, I know you are. But you gotta admit, people aren’t your thing.”

“Yes, well, most people aren’t _you_. I mean, er, it wasn’t-.”

“Awww.”

But Shepherd really was the most aptly-named person he had ever met, because if there was one thing that defined him, it was looking after everyone. True, he made hard decisions, but that was the burden of a leader, and he always tried to get the situation to be in his people’s favour, even at his own expense. And he added to his definition of ‘his people’ with abandon – Ronon had heard the story of the first Athosian-Lantean meeting from Teyla in all its awkward glory, as well as the one about the ‘planet with the kids’. He was just generally a good person. A good Commander. A good Shepherd. 

“Ha!”

“No, wait, that’s not-. It’s not – it doesn’t mean ‘Herder’. Dammit, homonyms are such a bitch.”

“A three-syllable word! Not bad for a Sheep-Herder.”

“Shut up, Rodney.”

It was at this point that Ronon gained the minuscule amount of lucidity it took to realise he had been mumbling out loud. Horrified at his lack of discipline, he tried to stand and salute, but failed to even make it to his knees. Black lines were stretching across his vision and his thoughts turned into a blank tapestry. Things were happening around him that he couldn’t really focus on, as if they were happening on a veranda across the road from him. Like hearing a _seturi_ being tuned across the room. Hands were grabbing at his clothes; in his stupor, he thought they were straightening the collar of his vest to look presentable. 

He missed his _Naki_. 

“Come on, buddy. My quarters are closest to a transporter. You can sleep off the hangover there.”

“John, I don’t think he’s conscious anymore.”

“Well, shit. Help me get him up, then-.”

“Yes, yes, _Sheep-Herder_.”

“God, you’ll never let that-.”

“You _must_ be joking, of course not. As if I would let good blackmail material pass unnoticed-.”

“-taking advantage of a drunk man’s rambling-.”

“- _you_ he was talking about. Carson finally has competition. The _jokes_ , oh my god, the possibilities-.”

Ronon was yanked up by his armpits and the rapid change in altitude made his brain check out for good.


	7. Save One for Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ronon witnesses his first Lantean groove session.

What was he looking at? It was utterly ridiculous, whatever it was supposed to be. 

His arm was in a sling and his painkillers were wearing off; Ronon was leaning perhaps a little too heavily on the wall because Teyla was watching him from the corner of her eye and scowling. Despite that, there was a lightness to her face and for once the two lines between her eyebrows were nowhere to be seen. 

This was probably because the entire expedition from Earth were making jerky movements and jumping up and down in the mess. Ronon hazarded a guess that it was dancing. True, most were doing it in time to the loud music that was being filtered into the room via the internal communication system, but it seemed so weirdly out of character for these restrained people. 

After a short lull when everyone was panting, laughing or shakily approaching a bench along the side, there was a remarkable change in the music. It was … jumpy. Or rather, it was trying to only hint at a tune but the instrument that was playing was not made for such delicate handling. It sounded … petulant? 

“So,” said someone over the comm system, “Doctors Killian and Lamperly seem to have been keeping secrets.” There was a pause in which many people started whistling and clapping. “No, no! Dirty minds! It’s not that. But, it sorta kinda is, because if there’s one thing that can be more intimate than sex, it’s learning to dance the tango together.”

Here, two of the scientists stepped into the hastily-cleared space. Their faces were bright red, but they focussed intently on one another. Poses were struck on opposite sides of the room. The man wore all black, long straight trousers and a vest over white sleeves; the woman was wearing a one-shoulder white dress that looked like it was falling off her in waves. 

“So that’s your ‘personal item’, Lamperly? Everyone was wondering what it was,” said the comm system. The woman made a gesture with her artistically raised hand which got everyone laughing. Ronon assumed it was rude. “Yeah, yeah. So, here it is: the tango!”

Ronon had seen partner dances before, both on Sateda and trade-worlds. None of those he had witnessed and participated in had been like this. 

Without taking their eyes off each other, the two started walking for the centre of the room. It didn’t take long for them to meet, but rather than acknowledge each other, they walked slightly past and made identical moves. Hips, feet, hands, arms: all of them were twisting, keeping time, moving in a circle. They were taunting, bringing forth passions that had everyone tilting forward in anticipation.

Then, the music picked up a little and the two came together in a beautifully fulfilling moment. 

A flurry began. When they were touching, the two were separable only by colour. When they were apart, they still had their hand, their leg, even just their _gaze_ touching the other. It was intensely intimate, like the speaker had hinted at, but Ronon hadn’t know the level this was working at. It was like they were seeing the other’s soul, their movements synced before they ever made them. There were lifts and reprieves where Lamperly skipped ahead a little and made Killian follow, but they were temporary. An entire section happened where Lamperly showed off her foot skills and Killian nearly made himself nauseous with the ferocity of his spins. With every separation, the connection became stronger.

They were a beautifully-crafted story.

There were a few moments where Lamperly stumbled or Killian stepped out of time to catch up, but they always danced on and it was like the imperfection was deliberate. Spins and mirrored moves kept them constantly exploring the space they had, sweeping arms sometimes barely missing stunned and enraptured faces. However, Killian was in perfect control when the final notes were warbled, his last poses including a pliant Lamperly held over his head and a dip that made her blonde curls sweep the floor. 

Ronon could almost not believe it was done. Such deep connection seemed like it should continue forever, suspended. It was entirely alien and masterfully executed. The cheering, clapping and whooping crowd seemed to think the latter, too. 

On the floor that was being invaded again, the two panting figures stared at each other and then, with extreme hesitance, initiated a kiss. It quickly deepened, and they got pushed into a branching hallway by the laughing crowd. Loud suggestions for them to get a room followed their retreat.

“I knew it! McKay, you owe me two bloody chocolate bars, I _told_ you it would happen today!” Garodan’s voice was audible in the background of another song, this one slower in pace. Couples had formed and began spinning across the mess, some more adroitly than others. McKay led Teyla in a sedate shuffle that couldn’t hide that he actually knew the correct foot positions and rhythm, but when Garodan made this remark over the speakers McKay only smirked and made Lamperly’s hand gesture to the room in general while twirling Teyla gently. Surprisingly, everyone just laughed it off, this time not at him, but _with_ him. 

What did music _do_ these people? Ronon was so utterly taken aback at their attitude shift, he didn’t notice Shepherd sidling up to his spot at the window. A hand on his shoulder brought him back to the mess and its swaying inhabitants. 

“So, up for a dance?” Shepherd teased him. Ronon glared and went back to studying the dance floor. The music was changing _again_ , this time to a deep rumble that got more intense, introducing a heavy beat and then very repetitive, electronic sounds that had everyone springing apart and undulating in a humiliating display. 

Shaking his head in confusion, Ronon glanced over at Shepherd, who was nodding his head subtly enough that probably only the ex-Runner noticed it. Seriously, _so_ weird. But it felt good to be among people (and all their quirks) again.


End file.
